


O Still Small Voice of Calm

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Choir AU, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/17487.html?thread=107315535#t107315535">this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme that asked for a choir AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John looked round the bright kitchen, ignoring the pile of pizza boxes by the bin, and nodded. It was very nice for student accommodation, and only twenty minutes to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. There was probably a catch.

“What’s the second fridge for?” he asked Mike. “The one with all the warning signs on it?”

Mike (a skinny trainee doctor with a fondness for gossip) looked at the fridge as if he’d never seen it before. “What fridge? Oh, that one. That’s Sherlock’s fridge, do you want to go to the pub?”

John frowned in thought as he tried to remember where he’d heard that name before. “Sherlock? I don’t think you’ve mentioned him.”

“Of course I have,” said Mike, looking at his watch. “He’s got the other room on the top floor. Chemistry PhD, quiet chap, you know. Let’s go to the pub now, I’ll buy you a drink.”

John was about to accept when the kitchen door was thrust open by a lanky man with dark hair wearing a heavily stained lab coat.

“Ah, Mike,” he said with an air of mild surprise. “Have you got any contacts on the Cambridge council?”

Mike sighed. “You know that I haven’t. Sherlock, this is John. He’s come to look at the room,” he said with a meaningful eyebrow raise that Sherlock ignored.

“Hello,” said John, giving a little wave. Sherlock looked him up and down then turned back to Mike.

“Do you know anyone who does? I need to speak to them about poison licences.”

“Oh! I know you,” said John, still smarting from being ignored. “They’ve got a sign up at the hospital about you. Did you really steal a foot?”

Sherlock flicked his eyes in John’s direction. “Yes. And you attempted to maintain concurrent relationships with two of your housemates and thought that they wouldn’t find out.”

John straightened his shoulders defensively and glanced at Mike. Mike shrugged _don’t blame me_ before glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock smirked at both of them.

They all turned as the back door rattled and a fit, brown-haired man wearing a leather jacket let himself in. John recognised him from nights out drinking with Mike as Greg Lestrade, Mike’s other housemate.

“The Howells?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Greg. “Will you come?”

Sherlock paused for a moment before responding. “Tenor?”

“Anderson,” said Greg with a grimace.

Sherlock frowned before nodding. “Add 20% to the usual fee for dealing with him.”

“And take off 10% for each person you make cry,” said Greg.

Sherlock stared at Greg. “Fine,” he said grudgingly when Greg didn’t back down.

“Thanks,” said Greg, and he went back out of the door. Sherlock grinned, unbuttoned his lab coat and dropped it to the floor to reveal an immaculate suit underneath. He grabbed a college scarf off the table and looped it round his neck while whistling a jaunty tune, then went into the hall to fetch a long coat before heading back towards the back door and pausing in front of John and Mike.

“You’re a tenor,” he said to John, savouring every word.

“Ye-es,” said John. “Wait, how did you-“

“And you’ve sung the Coll. Reg. before. Want to sing it now?”

John considered it for a moment. His usual Friday night plans were off the cards since half of his friends weren’t currently speaking to him, and it would probably be a good idea if he spent as much time as possible out of the house until he could move out. “Yeah, alright.” he said, and grabbed his coat. “See you later, Mike.” 

Mike waved goodbye with a raised eyebrow and a look John had seen before that said _I don’t know what you’re doing but it’s going to be entertaining to see what happens_. John and Sherlock walked together out the back door and up the path to the main road.

“How did you know about my housemates? And that I sing tenor? I’ve never told Mike that.” asked John as he buttoned his coat up against the freezing February wind.

“Hm? Oh, that. You’re looking for a single room in the middle of term even though you’ve been working at Addenbrooke’s with Mike since September, which says that your housemates have kicked you out. Mike wants you to live with us, which rules out a large number of objectionable behaviours. Most likely explanation is some form of sexual infidelity, a hypothesis which is supported by the faint handprint still visible on your right cheek from where one of them slapped you. Your singing history was even more obvious - you recognised the name Howells and I can hear it in the timbre of your voice,” rattled off Sherlock, walking briskly with his shoulders hunched and not looking at John.

“That’s brilliant,” said John, grinning in spite of himself and filing away the look of surprised pleasure on Sherlock’s face for later consideration. “I thought you did chemistry.”

Sherlock hummed before responding. “That’s up for debate.”

John looked sidelong at him before Sherlock elaborated. “At the Senate. The Chemistry department is arguing that I should be supervised by the Music department instead.”

John blinked. “Is that possible?”

“Probably not, but I admire their creativity. They spent last year trying to get me kicked out of the university altogether; this is a much cleverer strategy.”

John didn’t know what to say to that so he ignored it. “So how come Greg’s asked you to take evensong?”

“Oh, I’m a consulting organ scholar.” Sherlock looked at John’s disbelieving expression and shrugged. “It’s probably not a career for life.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock strode into the college chapel and headed straight past the various people milling around to Greg, who was talking to a curly-haired woman. John followed closely behind.

“Oh look, it’s the choir whisperer,” said the woman as Sherlock got closer. “Come to scare off more of our singers, have you?”

“Hello Sally. On the contrary; I’ve brought you a tenor,” said Sherlock, as if John was a bottle of wine that Sherlock had brought to a dinner party. From the look on Sally’s face, John suspected that he was an insultingly cheap bottle.

Greg brightened up. “I didn’t know you sang!”

John shrugged. “It’s been a while-“

“Where did he dig you up then?” said Sally to John, giving him an unflattering once-over.

“Um, hi,” said John, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Look, maybe I should go-“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock, sparing John a quick glance before attempting to stare Sally down.

Greg looked between the two of them and rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to sort John out some music,” he said to Sally. “You decide whether you’d rather play or sing; I don’t mind either way.” The sounds of bickering faded as he led John to an open door at the side of the chapel and into a small room filled with over-stacked shelves of sheet music and a rail of cassocks.

“First or second?” asked Greg as he looked at a rack of pigeonholes, mostly empty.

“Oh, either,” said John. “I’ve sung both before.”

“First then,” said Greg as he grabbed two of the few remaining folders. “Good timing, by the way – one of our tenors quit last week.”

John took the folder that Greg thrust at him and followed him back into the chapel. “Was that because of Sherlock?”

Greg laughed. “Actually no, not this time.” He looked over at the organ console where Sally had sat down. “Looks like I’m singing bass today then. Here,” he said, gesturing at the nearest choir stalls. John climbed up and found a seat next to a bearded man with a long, narrow nose who was making notes in his music.

“Anderson, we’ve found you a friend,” said Greg as he climbed in after John and sat down.

Anderson looked down his nose at John. “Oh, hello. Have you sung much before?” he asked in a nasal, gloomy voice.

“Some,” said John, diplomatically not mentioning his years at St Paul’s and in the National Youth Choir. Besides, he hadn’t sung in a year; he didn’t want to set expectations he wouldn’t be able to meet.

Anderson nodded and returned to his music. The rest of the stalls filled up, with two more basses filing in next to Greg. On the other side John recognised Molly Hooper (another trainee doctor) waving enthusiastically at him from the soprano section on the front row. He gave a little wave back. Sally was sticking her middle finger up over the organ console at Sherlock, who was wrestling with a too-short music stand in the centre of the nave. John couldn’t help grinning to himself as he flicked through his music; it felt so much like home that he couldn’t imagine how he’d stayed away for so long.

Sherlock finally managed to get the stand high enough and settled his music on it.

“We’re going to warm up with the psalm,” he said, looking round at the choir and ignoring Sally’s raised finger.”That should give me an adequate base-line of incompetence to work from.”

John raised an eyebrow and looked at Greg, who shrugged. They stood up with a chorus of throat-clearing and music-shuffling as Sally played through the chords of the Anglican chant, then took a collective breath and started to sing.

_I will sing of mercy and judgement: unto thee, O Lord, will I sing._

John sang softly as his voice eased itself into the rich texture of the voices around him. The harmony was familiar enough that he only needed an occasional glance at the words and could pay full attention to Sherlock, who was staring into the distance while conducting vaguely with one hand.

_I will behave myself wisely in a perfect way. O when wilt thou come unto me? I will walk within my house with a perfect heart._

Sherlock cut them off before they could begin the third verse.

“Well done; you failed to meet even my low expectations. Altos, you sang a B natural when B flat was clearly marked. Tenors, your top E was horribly flat. Basses, you were behind the beat throughout. And sopranos, I realise that breathing is too complicated for your tiny brains, which is why this music has been pointed for you; breath exactly at the places marked and nowhere else.”

John blinked at the unexpected criticism. He took the pencil that Lestrade was waving in his direction, and scribbled an upwards arrow over the E.

“Verse 3,” said Sherlock as he brought them in with a dismissive flick of his hand.

_I will set no wicked thing before mine eyes: I hate the work of them that turn aside; it shall not cleave to me._

“The dynamic markings are there for a reason.”

_A froward heart-_

“Froward, not forward.”

_-shall depart from me: I will not know a wicked person._

“Contrary to what you’ve apparently been told, the consonants at the end of words will not bite you.”

_Whoso privily slandereth his neighbour , him will I cut off: him that hath an high look and a proud heart will not I suffer._

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at that verse.

_Mine eyes shall be upon the faithful of the land, that they may dwell with me: he that walketh in a perfect way, he shall serve me._

“Watch me for the speed. Yes, Anderson, I mean you; I wouldn’t look at you if I didn’t have to.”

_He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house: he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my house._

John ignored Sherlock’s raised eyebrow and focussed on his music. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock laughing quietly. He couldn’t stop himself smiling in response.

_I will early destroy all the wicked of the land; that I may cut off all wicked doers from the city of the Lord._

“Sarah, if you keep holding notes on too long, I’ll send you to hell myself.”

_Glory be to the Father, and to the Son: and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen._

There was a nervous silence as the final notes of the Gloria faded away and they waited for Sherlock to speak.

“Well,” he said eventually, “that was good. Really good.”

The choir breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“I mean, you managed to get something wrong on almost every note,” he continued, “But –

“Thank you, Sherlock!” called out Greg. “I’m sure that was very educational for everyone. Now, how about we have a look at the canticles?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg. When that had no effect, he flicked over his music. “Fine. I suppose you’re as warmed up as you’re going to get; let’s see what havoc you can wreak on a proper piece of music.”

The organ introduction began with a solitary G, which quickly expanded into spare, haunting chords. The sopranos joined in tentatively and managed to sing half a bar before Sherlock slammed his hand down on the music stand.

“Are you incapable of counting? Is there some numerical deficiency that I should know about? The rhythm is like this,” said Sherlock, tapping viciously on the edge of his stand. “The instruction given is ‘placido ma con moto’ which means ‘placid but with motion’. Well, at least you’ve mastered placidity. Watch me this time, and move it along; unlike you, this music isn’t as slow as it looks.”

They started again and this time the sopranos got two bars in before being stopped. John sighed and looked ahead in the music. There were another three pages before the men came in, and then another all-female section before the Gloria. He pulled a tatty paperback out of his coat pocket and settled down to read.

Half an hour later, the men finally stood up to sing. They sang with all the strength and sensitivity that they could muster (John suspected that everyone else was as keen to avoid the sharp edge of Sherlock’s tongue as he was), and it wasn’t long before they were belting the magnificent Gloria at a satisfyingly loud volume.

Sherlock stopped them six bars before the end.

“This section may be considered comparable to the moment of physical climax,” he said in a deceptively casual tone. “It should be a peak of pleasure; a culmination of the previous sixty-six bars. What you are currently doing is the equivalent, for those of you who are sexually active, of waiting until the moment before your partner reaches orgasm to get out of bed and watch the cricket. It is dull and profoundly disappointing.”

John frowned at Sherlock. The choir was as good as any he had sung in before, and it was clear that everyone was trying as hard as they could.

Sherlock glanced up at John before continuing. “You all have adequate voices and are perfectly capable of singing this as it should be sung,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll run the Gloria one more time and then move on to the Nunc Dimittis.”

The following ‘Amen’ was sung with heartfelt intensity.


	3. Chapter 3

Sally went straight into the opening notes of the Nunc Dimittis after a wave from Sherlock, throwing in the occasional rude gesture without missing a note. John sat down with the rest of the choir (apart from Anderson) for the two pages of tenor solo before they sang again. He told himself that he was looking forward to listening to the other tenor’s take on the piece; Anderson might not have been particularly friendly but that was no reason for John to assume that he was just another arrogant soloist.

It was ... fine. The notes were competently sung, even if they were emotionally flat. Sherlock’s attempts to move the speed along or alter the dynamics went unnoticed; when Anderson did look up from his music, he paid more attention to Sally than to Sherlock. John could see Sherlock’s mouth tighten in frustration.

“Enough!” he snapped. John braced himself in sympathy with Anderson but the expected excoriation never came.

“Bar 17,” said Sherlock after a quick look at Greg. The choir joined in with harmony to support the final bars of the solo and the sopranos soon took over the tune as Anderson dropped down to join the rest of the tenors. John let his voice stretch out underneath their joyful soaring.

Sherlock stopped them before the Gloria and went over what they’d sung with brutal efficiency, foregoing scornful insults in favour of a matter-of-fact dissection of every note and word. John’s pencil flew across the page as he struggled to mark up his music with Sherlock’s comments. Anderson didn’t seem to feel the need to add any markings and John wondered if he actually believed that Sherlock’s lack of criticism was a compliment, rather than the insulting assumption that any words of advice would fall on tone-deaf ears.

It was Anderson’s loss; Sherlock’s no-feelings-spared approach was astonishingly effective. The second run-through of the Nunc Dimittis was exponentially better than the first, and the third was better still. John felt wonderfully limber, his voice resonating in a way it hadn’t for months, and he remembered the joy he’d found in this music the first time he’d sung it. When he noticed Sherlock eyeing him with a curious, assessing look, John reluctantly toned it down.

Greg stopped Sherlock going through the piece for a fourth time.

“Great work. It’s sounding lovely, but we’ve only got ten minutes left and we need to run the anthem.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock as he picked his music up off the stand. “You don’t need my help for that. Oh, one thing before I go: John will sing the solo tonight.”

“What?” said John, echoed half a second later by Anderson and Greg.

Sherlock grinned to himself before looking straight at John and raising an eyebrow. “Problem?”

 _Yes_ , John wanted to say. _It’s obvious you’re only doing this to prove a point and I don’t fancy being used like that, especially when it’s going to bugger up any chance I have of making friends here_. But he couldn’t come up with a protest that wasn’t going to sound like false modesty, which was the only thing that would make him even less popular than favouritism.

John was rescued from his awkward silence by Greg.

“Come on, be reasonable. We’ve rehearsed with Anderson. Does John even know the notes?” he asked before glancing at John. “No offence.”

John shrugged. “It’s ok. I haven’t sung it for ages. I don’t mind-“

“I mind,” said Sherlock, drawing himself up to his full height and fixing Greg with an unblinking stare.

Greg lasted several seconds before throwing his hands up in the air. “Fine. On your head be it.”

Sherlock picked up his music, turned, and strode down the nave and out of the chapel. John was suddenly very, very aware of twenty-odd people staring at him with varying degrees of surprise, resentment, curiosity and amusement. He turned to Anderson as Greg was making his way out of the choir stalls.

“Sorry about that,” said John awkwardly.

Anderson shrugged. “Oh, it’s your funeral. Last time I had to wear a false moustache.”

John blinked at that. “Why?”

“Because I refused to wear the mask,” said Anderson, raising his chin and giving John a defiant look. “I do have some dignity.”

John didn’t have time to ask any further questions as Greg quickly took control of the rehearsal and led them all in a hurried run-through of the week’s anthem and hymns. As the college bell struck six and everyone dashed off, John realised that he had no idea what was meant to happen next (apart from finding Sherlock and having serious words with him). He made his way over to the organ console where Sally was practising her voluntary.

“Erm ... do you know where Sherlock went?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” she said without looking up or pausing.

“Right,” he said, looking round. Heading back home and getting slapped again was starting to look like the better option for his evening.

Sally sighed and stopped playing. “Evensong is at seven, meet back here at quarter to to get cassocks on and line up, there’s sherry in the Sussex room afterwards and then free dinner at Hall if you fancy it.”

“Thanks,” said John, and the thought of free food and alcohol bolstered his courage. “Is there anywhere that I can have a quick practice?”

“Here’s fine, I’ll be done in a few minutes. You can turn pages for me while you wait.”

John took the hint and went round to sit next to Sally. She played the Bach fluently through to the end, re-ran a couple of pieces of tricky fingering, packed up her music, and stood up to leave.

“He doesn’t like your voice,” she said suddenly. “Him telling you to sing the solo – it was just to annoy Andy. It doesn’t mean that he thinks you’re any good.”

John didn’t know what to say to that; Sally was right, but he felt oddly reluctant to agree with her out loud. She left without saying anything else. John waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded, looked around the chapel three times to make absolutely sure no-one else was there, cleared his throat, and began to sing.

It took a few scales for him to get used to the sound of his voice ringing out through the building. The acoustic was gorgeous, perfect for the slow, restrained notes of the Howells’ to swell and linger, and John’s initial hesitancy soon turned to delight. He ran the solo through several times until he was happy with it then indulged himself with a one of the Purcell arias that he still had lodged in his brain. It was a glorious piece, full of runs and ornaments and high notes, and he stood there grinning and slightly out of breath as the final notes faded out.

John heard the sound of a door opening behind him and whirled round to see a tall, ginger man in a long black cassock emerge from the Lady chapel at the side.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” said the vicar as he walked leisurely across to the lectern and deposited a sheaf of papers.

“Oh, hello,” said John as he tried to remember the correct form of address. “Sally said it’d be alright if I practised here. Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was around.”

“I’m sure she did, and it is indeed all right, John,” said the vicar, not looking up as he flicked through the pages and put them in order. “Please, call me Mycroft.” He looked up and flashed a smile at John, who didn’t return it.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” asked John.

“Oh, I think I would have remembered if we had,” said Mycroft amiably. “No, I bumped into Greg on my way into the college this evening. He was full of news about his new housemate– well, you know how students love to gossip.”

John bit back a smart-arsed remark (though, judging from the look of mild amusement on Mycroft’s face, he might as well have said it). Instead he watched Mycroft lighting the large yellow candles fixed to the front of the choir stalls.

“Tell me,” said Mycroft as he lifted the lit taper from one wick and touched it to the next. “What’s it like singing for Sherlock?”

“Oh, it's very educational,” said John.

Mycroft reached the end of the first row, lit a second taper and held it out to John. John hesitated for a moment before taking it, then crossed the chapel and began lighting the candles on that side.

The smell of beeswax became stronger as he worked his way along the rows to the last candle on his side, and John had to resist the urge to straighten a non-existent ruff around his neck. When he finally turned round he was taken aback by the different building that emerged when the soft glow of candlelight competed with the harsh electric glare from above.

“Welcome back,” said Mycroft softly.

John shook his head, as much to clear his head as to disagree. “I’m just here to sing.” He thought for a moment. “I’m not even sure why I’m doing that, actually.”

Mycroft hummed non-committally as he took John’s extinguished taper and stowed it away with the matches at the end of one of the choir stalls.“Greg Lestrade believes that music is a path to God. Sherlock Holmes believes that music _is_ God. There are worse things to have faith in.”

John glanced at his watch and saw that he had just enough time to find a toilet before the service. “Right, well,” he said as decisively as he could manage, “I’m not signing up for the bake sale.”

He walked briskly down the nave and out of the chapel.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock whistled as he strode down King’s Street. He’d spent an enjoyable half an hour critiquing Dimmock’s choir at the behest of the director of music (who was anxious to get Sherlock’s comments in advance of their imminent CD recording instead of in a scathing review on his blog after the CD was released). Most of them had ended up in tears even though Sherlock had exercised considerable restraint by not pointing out their various infidelities and petty misdemeanours; there really was no pleasing some people.

Not for the first time, Sherlock reflected on the difficulties involved in dealing with singers. The few who managed to pair a decent voice with a modicum of intelligence and musical instinct invariably had too much ego to easily subsume their will to that of another’s, no matter how clearly superior his or her musical ability might be.

It really was a shame that Lestrade had so firmly vetoed his proposed hypnosis experiment.

..............................

Sherlock found John talking to Molly in the ante-chapel. The cassock that he’d been fitted out with was at least a foot too long, and Sherlock made a mental note to not stand too close to John during the procession in case he tripped and sent them all cascading like a row of scarlet dominoes. It would be rather a shame – Sherlock had already come up with twenty-eight ways in which John could be useful to him (including paying his share of the rent and access to the restricted areas of the hospital).

“Hi Sherlock!” said Molly, waving as she saw him approaching over John’s shoulder. John turned around and looked at Sherlock with an odd mixture of annoyance and relief (well, the look of relief was odd – Sherlock was quite familiar with the other one). “I heard about what happened with Irene last week. Are you alright?”

Sherlock glared at Molly, whose sympathetic eyes were entirely at odds with the grin she was failing to conceal.

“Ex-girlfriend?” asked John with an understanding look.

“Worse – alto,” said Sherlock irritably. “We had a slight disagreement during a recital which culminated in her snapping my conducting baton.”

John blinked. “That seems a bit excessive.”

“But then Sherlock stood on the hem of her dress,” said Molly, “which fell down.”

“It’s hardly my fault that she chose to go without underwear,” snapped Sherlock. “Besides, if it had bothered her that much then she would have pulled her dress back up before finishing the performance.”

John nodded. “Right … did anyone get any pictures?”

Sherlock split his glaring between the giggling pair of idiots. “I’m sure plenty of people did, as she‘s since had offers from two London opera companies. By the way, congratulations on your top G today, Molly. For once it wasn’t as flat as your – John?”

“Yes?”

“You appear to be standing on my foot.”

“Oops,” said John. After a moment’s pause, he moved his foot.

Molly looked between the two of them. “I’m just going to … re-arrange the hymn-books,” she said, and dashed off.

“Where have you been?” asked John. He was slightly pinker than would be warranted by the ambient temperature and kept nervously licking his lips. Sherlock frowned; he needed John to be at least halfway decent to justify the ousting of Anderson, which he hadn’t thought would be a problem based on the rehearsal as John had picked up the notes quickly enough and, as far as he could hear, not made any particularly offensive noises. Sherlock’s reputation and his hopes for a competent live-in tenor would be significantly diminished if John scuppered a simple church service with stage fright.

“Around,” Sherlock said airily. “Oh relax, you’ll be fine.

“You’ve put me on the spot just to make a point.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Luckily for you, I happen to be an excellent conductor. All you need to do is follow me precisely.”

“This isn’t on, I can’t - “

John was cut off as Lestrade shushed him and everyone started shuffling into two lines.

“Showtime,” whispered Sherlock as he waved jazz-hands at John.

.....................

Sherlock conducted his way through the psalm and opening responses with alacrity. The choir was marginally more responsive than usual and at times he could almost believe that he was playing them like an instrument (albeit a badly-strung instrument that he’d picked up at a pawn shop). Pleasingly, the sopranos managed not to completely butcher the Magnificat, but Sherlock couldn’t spare much attention for them when he was busy being as charismatic and brilliant as possible.

Performance anxiety clearly stemmed from the delusion on the part of a singer that he or she was responsible for the performance they produced – ergo, focussing completely on the conductor and mentally handing over accountability should eliminate nerves (unless it was indicative of a wider problem, but John’s apparent promiscuity indicated that was not the case). When they sat down for the second reading and Sherlock slid in at the end of row next to John, he took the opportunity to touch two fingers to John’s wrist (ignoring his startled movement) and take his pulse. It was a little high, but the important thing was that the brief contact had done the job of grabbing John’s attention.

They stood for the Nunc Dimittis and Sherlock looked at John with intent as Sally played the opening notes. John swallowed a few times, nodded, opened his mouth, and began to sing.

_Oh._

He hadn’t prepared for this eventuality - John was _good_. A little rusty from lack of practice, but a lovely – no, _wonderful_ \- voice nevertheless.

Sherlock stood there entranced. With his left hand beating the rhythm on automatic pilot, he made a minute gesture with his right; John increased his volume exactly as Sherlock had intended. Another tiny wave, and John slowed slightly.

_You’re not just any instrument – you’re a Stradivarius._

Sherlock barely took in a word of Mycroft’s sermon (fortunate, as it was a rather unsubtle take on the parable of the talents with many a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction). He sat on the hard pew, thigh pressed against John’s and mind whirling with possibilities. He’d have to test John’s range first, then his breath control – they’d obviously lapsed a little, but Sherlock could coax them back. He had a hunch that John had perfect pitch, which would be a bonus. Sight-reading? He seemed to have managed the rehearsal without any difficulties, which implied a (very) minimal level of competence – still, John could learn the notes in his own time (or in between patients).

Sherlock had expanded his list to one hundred and sixty-two uses by the time the anthem came round and Lestrade leapt up to conduct, glancing at John with a hungry, calculating look that said he’d already cast him in the next Gilbert & Sullivan society performance.

Bugger that. Sherlock would let tambourines be added to Tallis before he’d let someone steal his tenor.

.....................

After the service, Sherlock was waylaid by Mycroft for an interrogation disguised as fraternal concern – really, with all his interest in other people’s affairs, Mycroft had missed a lucrative calling as a tabloid journalist. By the time he’d broken free, John was with the rest of the choir getting changed. Sherlock barged into the room to find John lifting the tent-like cassock over his head.

“So, you’re on for the Britten on Thursday?” said Greg hopefully as John escaped from the cassock and pulled his t-shirt back down.

“Don’t see why not,” said John as he hung the cassock on its hook. Sherlock blinked, shook his head to get rid of the image of John’s lightly tanned and muscled stomach, and stalked over.

“Come on, John,” he said peremptorily, and he filed away for later consideration the way John’s face lit up at hearing Sherlock’s voice.

“Sherlock, hi!” John was practically bouncing on his feet with post-performance euphoria.

“Oh, are you not staying for dinner?” said Lestrade, looking between them and giving Sherlock a knowing look. “It’s free.”

“So’s Angelo’s,” said Sherlock to John, ignoring Lestrade as best he could. “And his food is sixty per cent less likely to make you violently ill.”

John was prevented from replying by Molly sticking her head back round the door.

“Oh, John, there you are!” she said, in a spectacular display of redundancy. “I’ve just seen George heading into Hall.”

“Right then,” said John, nodding at Sherlock and pulling his jacket off the hook. “Angelo’s it is.”

John zipped up his jacket as they strolled out together.

“Not going to ask about my torrid love-life, then?”

“Why would I?” asked Sherlock absently as he considered which chapel would have the best acoustic for an impromptu late-night rehearsal, and which would be the easiest to break into without being caught. “I already know that he’s a left-handed anaesthetist who plays the trumpet badly and discovered you and your other paramour in bed with yesterday lunchtime when he came home unexpectedly because his bike had a flat tyre.”

Sherlock glanced down at John’s shocked expression. “Oh, did I get everything right?”

John had just opened his mouth to respond when there was a shout behind them.

“John?” called a tall woman from the Hall entrance. “John Watson?”

“Um, how do you feel about a jog?” asked John as they walked briskly through the college gates. Sherlock grinned in response and started running as a bellow of “Oh, you BASTARD!” echoed behind them.

“So, George is short for Georgina,” panted Sherlock as they sprinted down Sidney Street.

“Yes,” said John.

Sherlock ignored the slight pang of disappointment as he concentrated on dodging round a group of slow-walking tourists. “Well sung, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said John, ducking under the outstretched arm of a man pointing at the college roof. “You were ... wow, you were amazing.”

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock noticed John’s admiring gaze wander lower before coming back up to Sherlock’s face. He shrugged as casually as he could while running. “Obviously,” he said, grabbing John’s elbow and dragging him down a narrow alley-way. “Short cut.”

One hundred and sixty- _three_.


End file.
